


Traitors

by zephalien



Series: community center paul [5]
Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insomnia, Nightmares, Tea, Trans Character, Transgender Alec Hardy, masculinity issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:27:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephalien/pseuds/zephalien
Summary: Hardy once again has an awkward and tense encounter with the local vicar.
Relationships: Paul Coates & Alec Hardy
Series: community center paul [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598026
Kudos: 29





	Traitors

**Author's Note:**

> They discuss Mark's suicide attempt. Hardy has some nightmares and dysphoria/masculinity issues here.

Hardy wakes up with a splitting headache. His nightmare feels the same as always: fear, certainty of his own demise, the spinning, the sound of his own terrified breathing. Now, it is accompanied with a strangely reassuring jolt as he reaches out for the pills on the side table. He still needs them, especially for the nightmares. He swallows one and drinks some water along with it. He waits for the world to return to stillness and sense.   
  
It’s still dark out when he looks outside. He checks the clock and it’s a bit before 5 am. He sits up with a groan. His chest aches, but it’s a spread out soreness. There’s nothing throbbing or stabbing or anything else that might be cause for alarm. He thinks he must have just been crying in his sleep again.    
  
He shuffles to the other room trying to be quiet not to wake Daisy and retrieves his case files from his work bag. He spreads them out on the kitchen table and starts to make some tea quietly. He stares at the kettle as it boils rather than go sit with the files at the table.   
  
On impulse, he goes to Daisy’s door to check on her. Her steady breathing is loud in the silence of the house. He wanders back into the kitchen and turns off the kettle, deciding he doesn’t really want tea at the moment. He looks over the bar in the kitchen at the files on the table, a sense of dread building in his belly.   
  
He feels an itching restlessness settle in and he goes to his room to trade out the soft sleep shirt for some clothes. He catches his reflection in the en suite and sees his pale chest. In a rare moment of ugly indulgence, he turns to face himself in the mirror. His breasts hang as afterthoughts against his ribs, an aberration. He presses under the tissue until he can feel the pacemaker’s edge under his skin.    
  
For a moment, he is mesmerized by his own oft ignored reflection, then he turns swiftly away and shoves himself into his binder and suit.    
  
The concept of  _ men _ burrows into his heart underneath the layers of cloth and binding and metal. He has seen enough during the course of this case to make his grip tighten on the files as he shoves them back into his work bag and a familiar rage burns him from the inside. If he is a traitor to his own body, then is he a traitor to women? He tries to ignore the sick feeling of alignment with the men he has to stare down in interrogation rooms.    
  
Despite his own disgust or maybe because of it, his mind immediately goes to Joe. Then to Ellie. What would she think of him if she knew his ugly little secret secured tight with rough elastic bound against his traitorous heart? He thinks back through the events of the Winterman case. The cold gaze of Lucas, the desperation of Ed, the cocky smiles, and haughty entitlement on display. He can’t remember a single man who isn’t guilty of something that makes his stomach roil.   
  
He remembers Paul now. His concern over Mark, now clearly justified, is fresh in Hardy’s mind. He knows the man had been perturbed by the Latimer’s family tragedy probably more than most. He thinks of the way the vicar had admitted his guilt at kidnapping Joe, his voice dripping with disgust, during their ironic mockery of a reverse confessional. He thinks of Paul’s fierce and hunted look behind intense green eyes. He knows by now that the vicar they belong to was innocent of any crime that Hardy had care to act as persecutor, but he was not innocent. He wasn’t one to forget the things he’d read of the man’s past, nor ignore the passionate fury he’d glimpsed from him in their encounters. If masculinity was a threat then what did that make him? The both of them.    
  
He thinks about calling on Miller for some tea in the early morning. It’s not something he has ever really done except for a case and for now they are just waiting on the dna for the next bit of direction. It feels like it will stretch on forever, just an unending parade of masculine guilt, his own included. He thinks again of Daisy and feels sick with rage and horror for her once again. At least, she is staying. The argument after he tore up her ticket had mellowed and she agreed that she would stay. Chloe Latimer had helped with that. 

He decides that Miller will be dead asleep for hours still to come.   
  
In the end, he wanders aimlessly for a while. He passes a corner store just opening up and thinks about popping in to buy a pack of cigarettes. He hasn’t smoked in years now, not since his diagnosis, but the case, and Daisy’s troubles, has been eating away at him. There’s a perverse sense of comfort he feels in the tightness of his bound chest inhaling smoke. The pressure off it giving way to a lightheaded shortness of breath when his lungs can’t find room enough to expand. He turns away to take a path which ends up sending him walking past the church. He thinks of Paul again and those fierce green eyes.    
  
It’s quiet here. Lonely. He wonders if Paul ever feels that way. He knows Mark Latimer must have. He knows he should leave it, but he has this off putting feeling in his stomach. He isn’t sure if it’s the way the man had looked so wretched on their last encounter or if it’s the utter stillness of the church grounds that makes him want to go inside.   
  
Hardy pulls the tight binder hidden beneath his shirt down in a nervous yank, then with shaking hands smooths the blue button down back from where his grip has wrinkled it. Hardy looks up at the church. It seems ominous even in the morning sun.    
  
"Are you here in need of counseling, DI Hardy?" Paul asks when he approaches the back office area and comes upon the vicar in repose. He doesn’t look shocked to see him. Paul doesn’t really look like he is feeling much of anything at the moment, except possibly very tired.   
  
Hardy immediately feels he shouldn’t have come. There was no point to it really. 

It always annoys him the way Paul pronounces his last name and he can never sort out why. He rarely allows anyone to call him his first name, the last person who had was Tess and she no longer says it in a way he likes to hear. He lingers on the slight annoyance to try to squirm away from the concern that had propelled him over the church threshold. 

“No,” Hardy replies simply. Paul isn’t looking at him, had only looked up to register who had entered before returning to his writing. Hardy realizes as he looks on that Paul is scribbling something in the margins of a worn bible.

"Can I offer you prayer in- oh, fuck this. What do you want, Alec?" Paul says, switching from his serene professional manner to a sharp annoyed look. He discards the bible and pen in favor of staring down Hardy directly. Hardy squashes down his shock and satisfaction at hearing his name from Paul's mouth, even in a harsh cutting tone.

"I- d'you- How-" He sputters in response to Paul's sudden switch. Paul huffs a frustrated sigh at his tangled words.

"Eloquent, as always," Paul mocks, but his voice is drained and eyes tired. Hardy shakes his head, an attempt to clear it and to stop seeing those eyes on him for a moment.

Hardy looks at him for a long quiet moment as he pulls himself back into one piece after the moment of unrest. He has no doubt that most of Paul's frustration lay with people who aren't here at the moment. He supposes he is as good a target for it as anyone. 

"Let's go get some tea." He says to Paul. It isn't a request. 

Paul looks over at him like he has finally lost it. "Tea? With you?"

"No, with the prime minister." He throws back, growing tired of letting Paul snipe at him. "Yes, me. Does it look like there's anyone else?"

He had meant 'anyone else in the room', but from the way Paul's shoulders hunched forward and his eyes blink closed, like Hardy had struck him, he realizes the way Paul had taken it. _Does it look like anyone else cares?_ In a sick way, it validates Hardy's urge to seek him out. To check on him. It was clear from Paul's expression that no one else had bothered to.

Paul nods then follows him with his hands in his pockets staring defeatedly at the ground. Hardy leads him to his car and opens the door for him politely. Paul looks at him for a long moment, as if he's reconsidering the offer before he sighs and gets inside.

They don't talk on the car ride to the little tea shop that Hardy has taken to frequenting in his time spent in Broadchurch. It's a nice quiet little place and he likes that they make tea well and don't bother with customer service. 

He orders for them both as Paul shadows him and hands the man the hot to go cup when they barista dumps a tea bags in each cup. 

Hardy's hand bumps Paul's as he hands over the cup. Paul looks at him quizzically as he takes it. 

"I don't drink caffeine." Paul tells him flatly.

"Aye, I saw your little collection in your house. It's chamomile. You seem a bit..." Hardy pauses to look him over. "High strung."

Paul snorts, as they sit. "You're one to talk."

It makes Hardy grin a little incredulously, but at least he'd gotten a smile out of the man, even if it was at his own expense. "Usually when people buy you tea, you are meant to say thank you."

Paul hums and stirs his tea, then looks up again meeting his eyes. "Thank you."

Hardy had been joking and the sincerity that Paul said it with took him a bit aback. "Don't tell me you'll start being nice to me, Coates. It'll ruin our whole dynamic."

Paul snorts again at this. Then he looks away and runs a hand over his eyes, sighing. "Don't worry. I won't."

A long silence stretches between them as Paul spins the cardboard sleeve around and around his to go cup.

"How's Mark?" Hardy asks abruptly.

"What?" Paul blurts, shocked. He sits up though and starts to tap his foot as he continues to focus on spinning the cardboard sleeve. "How should I know?"

Hardy shifts uncomfortably wrapping his hands tighter around his own cup, noting Paul's agitation. "Don't you... Aren't you..? Friends?"

Paul chuffs a bitter laugh and tries to count all the times Mark has yelled at him. They used to play football, but that was so long ago now, and he'd been kind of harsh with him, even then. "I don't know if that's the right word for it."

Hardy hums noncommittally, staring. Paul seems aware of his gaze, if only because his eyes are locked intently on the cup in front of him. "You seemed worried about him last time we spoke."

"Yeah, I was." Paul takes a sip of tea then sets his cup carefully down and removes his hands from the table. He sits up straighter, stilling his legs nervous jumping, and folds his hands in his lap. Hardy clenches his fingers together watching this, trying to avoid crushing the cup in between them.

"It must be hard for him." Hardy says, voice low.

"Things are hard for lots of people." Paul mumbles into his cup before taking another sip of tea. He is painfully stiff, back ramrod straight. It makes Hardy's own back ache in sympathy.

"Sure, but it's understandable isn't it? I mean, losing your family... your child..." Hardy's voice goes quieter as he peers at his own cup, blinking quickly.

He can see a muscle jumping in Paul's clenched jaw and he feels some ugly suspicious paranoia rise in his belly.

"Did you have any idea he was going to..." Hardy trails off, realizing how stupid the question is from the shocked horrified expression Paul now wears. He isn't even sure why he asked it. Some mix of agitation brought about by the angry vicar in front of him and desire to attack a problem from all angles, even ones that didn't technically concern him. He notes that Paul's hand darts to grab his napkin off the table, almost unconsciously, and begins to twist it mercilessly between his fingers.

"No, I didn't know, Officer. He didn't tell me. No one ever tells me _shit_. And." Paul leans forward for emphasis with fury in his eyes. "I was home all fucking evening."

Hardy has the good sense to look down at his own cup, guilty. He hadn't intentionally been questioning the man. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to..."

He feels chafed and vulnerable at admitting anything Paul right now, but he feels he owes him that after the awful direction this conversation had gone in. "I'm not good at comforting people." He finally admits.

"Yeah, you got that right, _detective_. This has been.. Lovely, but I'm going." Paul snarls and stands abruptly, discarding his mangled napkin on the table as he stuff his hands in his pockets and scurries away.

Hardy sits, gripping his tea for a long time, wondering why he'd needed to ask that. Wondering what it was exactly about Paul he was trying to discern. He sips the tea, but it has by now gone cold and he dumps it along with Paul's cup and napkin in the trash as he leaves.

He thinks Ellie would have handled the whole thing so much better.


End file.
